Do the Math

by

Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Fiction, Incest, Mother, Son, .

Desc: Incest Sex Story: Jena is a 32 year old single mom with a nearly 19 year old son, Jonathan. (Yes, she is aware how old she was when she became pregnant.) For the past 10 months, Jena has harbored a terrible secret that she finally confesses to in a diary. You can imagine what that terrible secret is. Jonathan certainly knows.

I am 32 years old. Jonathan is 18. You don't need to be an accountant to do the math. For the record, I am starting this account Sunday evening, March 1, 2015. The date the account actually begins is May 27, 2014, a Tuesday. The time was just after 11 p.m. It was the day between Jonathan's birthday, and my own.

Jonathan's father is long out of the picture. I haven't seen him in almost four years. For Jonathan, it's been nearly three years. His father lives in Laramie, Wyoming, with his third wife and their three kids. Nick has six children altogether, including Jonathan.

His father and I were never married. I've never married, and retain my maiden name, or course, while Jonathan bears the name of his father. That was our parent's decision. I wanted Jonathan named completely after my father, whom I adore, but he overrode me. A child is the son of his father, he said. I was 14; I had no say.

I work for my dad. He is general manager and part owner of the third largest electrical supply company on the East Coast. I've worked for him all my adult life. I worked part time for him during 11th and 12th grade, sporadically during college, and then he put me to work as a newly minted BA in accounting after graduation. Because of my father, I can provide for my son as a single parent in our own home. It's not always easy. Sometimes, it's very, very difficult.

Mom and Dad took legal custody of Jonathan until I turned 18. It was the only way to keep him out of the hands of his other grandparents. I had little contact with Nicholas after revealing that I was pregnant, until we turned 16 and Nicholas rebelled. By then, it was too late. We had little in common to begin with except intense sexual attraction in our thirteenth year, and two years away from him put an end to that. I had little to do with any boy, all the way through the end of high school.

It was different in college, of course; I went wild. I almost lost Jonathan again, and probably for good this time, had Dad not put an end to my wildness with a good spanking over his knee on my bare behind. This was in front of my roommates during the end of my sophomore year, and I hated him for it. He made me kneel in a corner afterward, like he made me do when I was a little girl, hands on my head, my bare bottom showing the results of his handiwork. I hated him, but I grew up that night. I wish he were here to discipline me now. I deserved to be put in a corner again, crying.

Jonathan is at school, probably raising hell with his friends, doing what every freshman does their first year-get trashed and party. He drives home on weekends to see me. It's a four-hour drive, but he never misses a weekend, no matter how bad the weather or road conditions. Since he left in September, he's been home every weekend but one, and only because his car broke down. He usually arrives around the time I get home Friday night, and heads back at three p.m. Sunday afternoon. We spend as much time together as possible. His friends grow rather chagrined, I imagine, knowing he's here and Jonathan practically ignoring them. I am selfish bitch and don't care.

I keep putting this off. Just type it out, Jena.

I can't. Even though it's the reason I opened my Macbook tonight.

Monday evening

March 2, 2015

I've decided to do this as journal entries. I came apart last night, closed the lid on the Macbook and went to bed. Actually, I read on my Kindle and munched on celery and carrot sticks until midnight. Jonathan says I'm a rabbit. I'm a vegetarian, though unlike vegans, I occasionally eat fish and have no problem with most diary products, other than milk. I have never liked milk. Maybe because my mother poured it down me by the gallon growing up. I also don't much care for cheese, though I eat it on salads and such. I tell you this; to explain the full tub of Ranch dip I consumed last night with the celery and carrots. Dip is my comfort food. I am helpless before dip.

Jonathan is my lover. There I said. It's done.

Tuesday evening

March 3, 2015

Last night went well. I got one paragraph written. I dropped my bombshell, though, and that was good. I have never told anyone. I hereby confess to everyone now, anyone who reads this account. No one will ever, ever read this account.

I don't mean to be flip. This truly is a horrendous situation. Difficult beyond all imagining for a mother, woman, daughter, companion. It is amazing that I haven't lost my mind the way I lost my moral compass in the last 10 months. How effing fragile I've become. How unable to explain why I continue to do this week after week, with no end in sight. People kill themselves over things like this. I wanted to, that first night especially, as the true horror of the situation enveloped me like a death shroud. That's where this account starts: the worst moment of my life. That split second in time that Jonathan had prayed for since the age of eleven, and never believed would come. It was the moment he reached orgasm and ejaculated into his mother's vagina.

There, I said it. So much worse than a simple admission of wrongdoing. Let me say it again: Jonathan ejaculated in me at approximately 11: 06 p.m. on the evening of May 27, 2014, the day following his 18th birthday, and one shy of my 32nd. Our shared birthday present, as I've often thought.


It's 9:41 p.m. I took an hour away from typing that bit about the birthday present.

I became unglued, even as his sperm flooded my insides. I was in bed with my son, my underwear on the floor beside us, the rest of my clothing downstairs on the living room floor. A half-empty bottle of Chardonnay on the bedside table alongside two empty glasses; an empty bottle on the coffee table downstairs, the remains of the four joints we'd smoked, the strip monopoly game where I'd removed everything but my panties in front on my son.

"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus," he cried repeatedly as my body rebelled, as my mind started to shut down. Not pushing him away, but withdrawing into itself like a flipped tortoise into its shell. My arms released first, folding alongside my ribcage, hands tucking into my armpits defensively. Then my legs came apart, spread-eagling first, before forcing their way beneath him even as he struggled to bury himself deeper inside me. Finally, I turned away, closed my eyes, and imagined soaking in a hot bubble bath, in my darkened bathroom, scented candles flickering through the translucent curtain. It was my only means of escape, of mental survival. I had just fucked my son.

"Mom?"

I made a pitiful mewling noise and shook my head.

"Mom, are you okay?"

How could I be okay? On what planet could I possibly be okay with what I'd just done? I just kept shaking my head.

"Mom, it's all right," he soothed, trying to bring my chin around with his fingertips, but I shook him off.

"No," I croaked. "Don't."

He lay still, supported on his elbows, his weight on my hips and thighs, still in me, but no longer moving. I could feel the slick wetness of his semen, leaked out from our exertions and from my desperate pullback. I will always feel the wetness we made our first time together. It was not all him, not close; I had added my share.

"Are you all right?"

"Please stop asking me that," I pleaded.

He remained motionless, penis wilting and thankfully, easing out of me. I controlled my breathing and felt the thud of my heartbeat, a fist beating protest against my breastbone. What had I done? What was wrong with me? I had committed incest.

I had been a willing, active participant in the act of incest. I had moved forward with Jonathan in lockstep, a perverse ballet of step, counter-step, would you like to do this, I would like to do that, innuendo and taunt, tease and titter, titillation and tentativeness, until...

My mind said no more.

He eased off me and I turned on my side, curling into a fetal ball. "Please go to bed, Jonathan."

"Mom... ?"

I continued shaking my head, eyes squeezed shut, jaws clenched tight, lips drawn back, breathing through my teeth. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

He touched my shoulder and I shuddered so violently that he snatched it away. I covered myself, cocooning inside the bedclothes. The shudder had started a tremble that was fast becoming an earthquake.

"I can't leave you like this," he objected, voice hoarse and cracked.

I shook my head, shook it, shook it, and shook it.

He sat on the edge, fidgeting, rubbing his legs, scratching his arms, occasionally shifting his weight, not touching me, but always on the verge. I cringed if he even placed a hand too close beside me on the bed.

"I'm not going," he said, harshly. "If we end it like this, you'll never talk to me again."

That was a very real possibility. I might kill myself.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

I shook my head doggedly.

"This wasn't your fault. I-"

"Stop it!" I cried. "No more! Just go to bed, please! Now!"

He stiffened in determination. "No!"

"Jonathan, please?" I begged. "Can't you see-" That was far as I got before the floodgates opened and the horror came pouring out of me.

Wednesday evening

March 4, 2015

I have to attempt this, a little at a time. Tackle it, I should say. Last night I slept almost as badly as I did the night of my birthday. The evening before, Tuesday night, once Jonathan had left me alone and gone to his bedroom, if not to bed, I fell asleep immediately and dreamed nothing at all.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Reluctant / Heterosexual / Fiction / Incest / Mother / Son /